


A Fever Dream

by Sexxica



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Caring John, Drugged John, Drugged Sex, Drugged Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Johnlock Roulette, Lisping Sherlock, M/M, Sherlock Experiments on John, Truth Serum, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexxica/pseuds/Sexxica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock slips a new compound into John's morning cuppa, he thinks he has everything under control.  Of course this isn't the case, and soon both John and Sherlock are under the influence of something with some very interesting side effects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Follow me on Tumblr!](http://sexxicawrites.tumblr.com/)

"John, please, I need you to try to focus.   The compound will only stay in your system for another ten hours and I need to know all the effects.  This is important.  John!”

Sherlock’s words filtered bit by bit through to John’s consciousness as if his brain were wrapped in a thick blanket of cotton wool.  He blinked twice.  Slowly.  Eventually, Sherlock sitting at their kitchen table, notebook in hand, swam into his vision.

“Sherlock I don’t.  I feel, umm.”  John trailed off, unable to find the words for exactly what he was feeling.  Drunk wasn’t quite right.  There was no nausea, dizziness, nothing except a pervading sort of warm … fuzziness.  Like the world had slowed completely down and everything was surprisingly cozy.  Surprisingly good.

“John!” Sherlock insisted.  Right. Sherlock was anxious, wanted something from him.  What did he want again?  Sherlock’s knee jerked up and down at a rapid pace.  Distracting.  “How do you feel John?”  

John blinked again, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s bouncing knee.  “Warm” he managed to say, the word thick and unfamiliar in his mouth.  “Funny” he added.

“Is that it? John please, it took me ages to get that compound correct.  You’re a doctor! I thought you would be better at this.”  Sherlock threw his notebook down on the table and John startled slightly later than he should have at the sound.

“I … wait.  You drugged me?”  John said, his mind finally catching up with the situation.  He was shockingly calm about it, but maybe his anger just hadn’t caught up yet either.  It wasn’t the first time this had happened.  John was mostly just starting to wish that Sherlock would at least warn him before using him as a test subject.

“Yes, John” Sherlock sighed, his face fixed in his ‘don’t be so obvious’ expression.  “Do keep up.”

“What did you give me Sherlock?” John asked, warmth suffusing through his limbs, his words slightly slurred.

“It’s for a case.  Something new.  Apparently it should work as a kind of mild sedative and truth serum, making it all but impossible for you to refuse to respond to questioning, but so far you are disproving that element entirely.”  Sherlock huffed, he was practically starting to sulk.

John took a deep breath, let Sherlock’s words fully sink in.  He thought he should be angry, but that seemed like far too much effort.  Besides, he really did feel rather nice and couldn’t remember the last time he had been so relaxed.  It was too late to do anything about it anyway.  John sighed and let his gaze wander over the table.  Oh he had toast.  When had he made toast?  What time was it anyway?

“I dosed your tea before you made breakfast.  It’s been a full hour since then.”  Sherlock said, practically reading John’s mind.  How could he always do that?  “Fine, eat your toast”  Sherlock said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, but his gaze stayed fixed on John.

John shrugged and ate.  His toast was stone cold, but it tasted alright.  In fact, it almost seemed to be clearing his head a little bit.  He chewed slowly, only slightly disconcerted by how closely Sherlock seemed to be watching him.  Sherlock’s knee had starting bouncing again, apparently John was taking too long.

“Are we on a timeline?” John asked, dusting the crumbs from his hands, feeling much better for having something in his stomach.  All his edges still seemed fuzzy though, and every heartbeat sent a rush of renewed warmth through his veins.  Odd, but not entirely unpleasant.

“I need data, John.  All of this will be useless if you can’t even tell me what the effects are.”

John looked at Sherlock, his impatient face and bounding knee and the way his robe draped over his shoulders and the chair, the tie starting to puddle on the floor.  “I, well, I feel better now.  Before I was all … all slow.  Like everything was happening far away.”  Sherlock hummed at that, picking up his notebook again and scribbling.  

“And now?”

“Now I’m just warm and nice.  Maybe still a little slow.  Yeah, I’m.”  John trailed off again, he seemed to be very easily distracted, it was hard to keep focus.  His gaze drifted to Sherlock’s knee and before he knew what he was doing, he realized he had reached out to still it.  “Can you not, umm.”  John couldn’t find the words to finish the sentence as he was suddenly flooded with sensations.

Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms were so soft and the bones beneath hard and angular.  John could feel the tensing of Sherlock’s leg muscles, their strength and heat.  A small choked sound broke from his throat. He wasn’t sure how long his hand had been there, it could have been a second, it could have been five minutes.  John’s sense of time was entirely muddled.

Sherlock cleared his throat.  “Are you quite alright?”  

John blinked but didn’t move an inch.  “I … I don’t know.” he finally answered.  He truly wasn’t sure anymore.  

“Let’s just, move this.”  Sherlock said and gripped John’s wrist, lifting the hand up off his knee and placing it on the table.  

John gasped at the touch and his vision glazed over.  What was happening to him? Every little thing sent sparks shooting through his nervous system, filled his veins with fire.  Oh god, was he getting aroused?  Oh no, no no, no.  That could not be happening.  Not here.  Not now.  Not by bloody Sherlock Holmes barely touching his wrist.

“John, you need to tell me what’s happening.”

“Everything.  Umm, everything feels.  Intense.”  John licked his lips and shifted in his chair, refusing to look at Sherlock, but he could hear him scribbling again.

“Sensory overload” Sherlock hummed.  “Is it just touch, or light and sound as well?”

“No, I don’t think …that’s not.  It doesn’t hurt.  It feels umm, good.”  John answered, a blush starting to creep up his face.

“John.”  Sherlock said his name as if it were a command.  John only replied with a questioning sound.  “John look at me.” he insisted again and John ever so slowly worked his eyes up from the table, over Sherlock’s chest, his neck, chin, lips, nose, and finally to his eyes.  That was a mistake.  John’s breath hitched visibly.

John struggled to hold Sherlock’s concentrated stare.  His cheeks and ears burned and he suddenly felt like he was overheating.  Sherlock looked him in the eyes for what seemed like ages, but then that cold stare raked up and down John’s seated frame, making him squirm.  John knew he was breathing heavily now, but couldn’t do anything to stop it.  He also couldn’t stop the strained moan that slipped past his lips as Sherlock reached out to his neck to take his pulse.

John’s eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into the touch, feeling a disproportionate amount of loss when Sherlock removed his fingers.  “Interesting” Sherlock said, jotting down more notes while John struggled to get his breath back.

John had to admit he did feel interesting.  More than that though he felt _interested_.  Incredibly interested in what it would feel like to have Sherlock touch him more, or to touch Sherlock more.  Maybe run his hands over his sharp collarbones, up the sinuous muscles in his neck and into all that hair.  John groaned as he felt his forehead bead with sweat and his trousers tighten as his cock started to fill out.

He had never bolted for the bathroom so fast in life.  Once safely behind a closed door John ripped off his jumper and leaned against the sink.  He was practically panting and his face was bright red.  He turned the tap on and let the cold water filter pleasantly through his fingers before splashing some on his face.  

What was happening to him?  Surely Sherlock wouldn’t give him something that had the main side effect of arousal.  Maybe he hadn’t expected it, or maybe he had made a mistake with the dosage, or with the compound itself.  God, what was he going to do?  He didn’t want to hide in the bathroom for the next nine or so hours, but he could hardly go back out there and face Sherlock.

Even on a bad day Sherlock was attractive, but John had done his best to shove anything other than a healthy admiration of Sherlock’s genius as far inside himself as was possible.  Sherlock was clearly not interested, he had said as much when they first met, so John had kept his more than platonic feelings to himself out of respect for Sherlock’s boundaries.  Not to say that he didn’t feature in the large majority of John’s masturbatory fantasies.

A sharp knock came at the door.  “John, is everything alright?”

“No!” John blurted out before he was entirely sure he had given his mouth permission to form the word.

“If you would tell me what’s going on, I’m sure I could help.”

“Ha!” John laughed, “No Sherlock, you really, really couldn’t.”

“What symptoms are you experiencing besides the sensitivity?” Sherlock asked from the other side of the door, clearly not going anywhere.

“Arousal.” John said, quickly clapping a hand over his mouth as his eyes went wide in shock.  He had not meant to say that.  Oh god, why had he said that?

“Oh. Oh!” came Sherlock’s reply.  John could almost hear the gears that were clearly turning in Sherlock’s mind.  “Did you mean to say that?” He asked.

“No” John groaned, slumping down to the bathroom floor and letting the back of his head thump against the door.  “Sherlock what did you do to me?”

“I told you it was meant to act as a kind of truth serum.  Tell me, are you able to refuse to answer?”  Sherlock sounded almost giddy.

“No.” John groaned again, the word slipping out of him as if it had bypassed his brain entirely.

“Fascinating.” Sherlock mumbled on the other side of the door.  “John, will you come back out here so I can observe the effects properly?”

“No, Sherlock, I will not.  I don’t want to participate in your little experiment anymore.” Anger was starting to seep through into John’s pervading sense of calm and warmth with each question he felt forced to answer.

“John, please, this is important.” Sherlock insisted.

“If it’s so damn important Sherlock then why didn’t you dose yourself?  I refuse to be your lab rat and if I have to hide out in the bathroom with my ears plugged until this damn stuff wears off, so be it!” John said sternly, through clenched teeth.  A short silence followed, and John couldn’t tell if Sherlock had given up, or if he was simply forming a new plan of attack.

“If I dose myself too will you answer my questions?”  Sherlock asked quietly.  

“Yes.” John sighed, unable to give any other answer.  

John heard Sherlock go back into the kitchen, then the clinking sound of glassware before Sherlock was back at the the door.  “It’s done.  If you’re any indication it should take about an hour and a half before it reaches full effect.  I’ll be in the living room.”

John didn’t reply, but gave a sigh of relief as he heard Sherlock pad away from the bathroom door.


	2. Chapter 2

John hid out in the bathroom for what he hoped was around an hour and a half before daring to venture out again.  His isolation had calmed him down significantly, and he was back to feeling blissed out and warm.  

He walked quietly out into the living room to find Sherlock sprawled on the couch.  His long legs spread wide, his arms at his sides, and his head resting on the back of the couch, face tilted to the ceiling.  John gave a small cough as he stood in the doorway, but Sherlock didn’t stir.

John walked closer, close enough to see the shallow rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest and that his eyes were in fact open.  John coughed again.  A moment later he watched as Sherlock blinked slowly and turned his head, his lip quirked up into a small, fleeting smile. “John,” he drawled, his speech slightly slurred, “I thought maybe you weren’t ever going to come out of there.”  At this Sherlock patted the couch next to him.  “Come.  Sit.  I have questions.”

John shifted on his bare feet.  “Sherlock, I’m still not sure about this.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes at that and curled up into himself on the couch, his chin resting on his knees.

“Fine, ask away, I’m sure it’s taken full effect by now.”  Sherlock sighed deeply, clearly feeling the same warmth and overwhelming _goodness_ that was flowing through John’s own veins.

John swallowed, his foggy mind struggling to latch onto an appropriate question that would lessen the embarrassment still lingering from Sherlock’s earlier interrogation.  “Did you know it would do … umm ... _that_?” he settled, hoping Sherlock would get the implication.

“Hmm I suspected as much, yes.” Sherlock’s eyes widened, the answer clearly spilling out of him as John’s had.  Sherlock’s brows knit together after having the truth pulled out of him and he stared decisively at the coffee table in front of him, avoiding looking at John.   

“Jesus Sherlock, why the hell would you give me something like that?” John hadn’t planned on the follow-up question, and wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to know the answer.  Likely it would be that he was simply a convenient test subject, close in proximity and easy to slip substances to if the past was any indication.

“I wanted to know what you looked like when aroused.”  Sherlock said, followed by a choked groan as he buried his face in his knees.

John was shocked.  He stood for a long time, his mouth hanging open, just staring at Sherlock’s hunched form.  He swallowed and asked quietly, “like as an experiment?”  

“No.” came Sherlock’s muffled answer.

“Right. Umm, right.” John said, just wanting to fill the silence as a blush crept up over his face again.  John’s head swam.  Sherlock had wanted him like this - overly sensitive, truthful, pliant and so easily turned on it was embarrassing.  He was torn between being incredibly angry about the violation, and intensely intrigued by the fact that Sherlock was now in exactly the same position.  

His curiosity won out and he walked slowly over to the couch and settled himself lightly next to Sherlock.  His heart rate was increasing by the second.  “It’s … umm.  I’m not … well, no, I’m very angry.  Just not about...”  John let out a frustrated noise at his inability to put what he was feeling into words and scrubbed a hand over his face.  “Why can’t you just ask me before you do these things?”

“You would say no.”  Sherlock mumbled, his face still buried in his knees.

John just sighed - that was definitely true.  John didn’t want to ask any more questions, but he also didn’t want to let the silence grow between them, so he reached out a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder.  His fingers slid up over cool silk, spread taught over tensed muscle and peaked shoulder blades until his fingertips cupped into the t-shirt clad hollow above his collarbone.

He tried to anticipate the intensity of feeling he knew the gesture would bring, but the contrast of chill liquidity leading to soft cotton all underlayed with heat and musculature had him biting his lip to the point of pain to stop himself from calling out.

Sherlock could not have expected the wave of pleasure that washed through him with John’s touch.  He let out a deep groan and closed his eyes as all of him seemed to relax into the touch.  He could think of little else except the point of contact - the heat of John’s hand, the gentle pressure of a wide palm on the top of his shoulder and the insistence of four fingers and one thumb pulling him gently back, wanting him to unravel.

His body obliged before his brain had fully processed the request and his head lifted and he let his hands fall to his sides.  He kept his knees up, heels resting on the edge of the couch, but John pressed his upper body into the back of the sofa.  His breathing was quick and he felt so warm and so indescribably good despite the nagging fear, seeming so far away now, that John would ask him more questions he had no control over the answer to.

John watched as Sherlock slowly uncurled for him.  John’s palm sliding to the front of Sherlock’s shoulder to push instead of pull as he turned his own body to face Sherlock.  John tucked one leg up, the other resting on the floor, but he let his hand rest, warm and pleasant and firing dull electric charges up through his nervous system, on Sherlock’s shoulder.  

John breathed quick and quivering breaths, watching Sherlock’s chest rise and fall and the red tinge his cheeks had taken on.  John didn’t realize he had begun to smooth his thumb up and down the sleek edge of Sherlock’s robe until an almost rumbling purr rose from between Sherlock’s parted lips.  John didn’t stop though, he was transfixed, barely in control of his own thoughts let alone his movements.

Slowly Sherlock opened his eyes, his gaze immediately landing on John, staring back at him, closer than he had realized.  They were perfect mirrors of each other: cheeks flushed, mouths open, breathing quick, and pupils blown so wide as to nearly engulf their respective irises.  Sherlock whined, although he didn’t recognize the sound as one of his own making.

John’s heart leapt into his throat as he moved his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder up to cup his cheek instead.  “Shh,” John whispered, “it’s okay.”  He swallowed hard as his focus shifted from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth, his thumb resting right at the corner of his lips. So close.  What would they feel like?  They looked soft, yielding, delicately moist.  John licked his own lips unconsciously.

John wasn’t aware he was starting to lean in closer, pitching forward bit by bit as his thumb began a slow glide, back and forth, across Sherlock’s bottom lip.  He was dimly aware of the rough sound of his breathing, and much more aware of the growing tightness of his jeans.  He could no longer bring himself to care, or bother to be embarrassed about it.  Sherlock had wanted him like this, and John was starting to lose himself in touch, give over to how much he just wanted _more_.

He brought his other hand up to Sherlock’s neck, sliding the pads of his fingers over the sinuous and slender muscles there.  They felt strong, tense, yet somehow delicate with the visible flow of blood rushing through his veins with each pulse.  John almost thought he could hear each beat of Sherlock’s heart as he felt it beneath his fingers.

John’s hand continued up behind Sherlock’s ear, the tips of his fingers insinuating themselves into all those curls.  He gave a small moan as Sherlock turned his upper body toward him and John suddenly felt a large, warm hand land solidly on his denim-clad thigh.  John pulled his gaze off Sherlock’s lips with some effort and looked him in the eye as he wrapped his fingers in soft, silken hair - let it and Sherlock’s glassy stare envelop his senses.

Sherlock thrilled at all of John’s touches.  They filled him with warmth and comfort and a strange, desperate desire to touch and be touched, as if he would die from a lack of contact.  He leaned forward slightly to close the minimal distance between them.  Their foreheads bumped together as they held each others stares.  Their breaths mingled.  Their noses brushed.  Both of them were filled with electricity, nerves firing off pleasure far greater than what a simple meeting of skin should provide.

“John?”  Sherlock questioned, his voice breaking slightly on the name.

“Hmm?”  John murmured back, his attention torn between the hand on his leg and the feeling of Sherlock’s hair among his fingers.

“I need to know.”  Sherlock said.

John’s brows knit together in confusion at the statement.  “Need to know what?” he asked, his eyes flicking over Sherlock’s earnest face.

Sherlock groaned slightly, took a steadying breath before answering, “I need to know if … if you want me, John.”  He bit his lower lip briefly.  “Do you?  Want me, that is?”  Sherlock rambled, his speech still slow.

John pulled away a little, just enough to bring all of Sherlock’s face into focus.  “Of course I want you.”  John answered, his own face a picture of concern.  Sherlock did not look reassured.  John’s slowed mind reached and struggled for another explanation, another answer that Sherlock might be looking for.  He drew on all his knowledge of the way Sherlock’s mind appeared to work, or more importantly, the way his seeming inexperience with emotions worked.

John smiled when he hit on the answer.  “Do you mean before today? Did I want you before you drugged us to the gills?”

Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly and a small “yes” was dragged out of him.

“God Sherlock, of course.  Jesus, yes, yes.”  John’s affirmations were broken off as his and Sherlock’s lips met in a crushing kiss.  Both men moaned at the indescribable sensations of it.  The heat and need and so much repressed desire, apparently on both sides much to John’s surprise, came through in that first bruising and inelegant kiss.

“I thought you were,”  John started between heated kisses, his one hand on Sherlock’s jaw, the other fisting into his hair.  “I mean, I thought you _weren’t_.”  John gave a huff of breath. “I didn’t think you were interested.” he finally said quietly, into Sherlock’s parted lips.

Sherlock blushed even deeper and shied away from John, moving his hand off John’s thigh to pull John’s hand off his face.  He curled himself back up again as John looked at him confused and more than a little bit hurt.  “I was and I wasn’t.” Sherlock said.  “At least I didn’t think I was.  I mean I never…”  Sherlock trailed off, leaving John even more confused.

“I don’t understand, Sherlock.  But, I … I don’t want to ask you anything else that you don’t want to answer.  I’d like it very much if you could tell me what’s going on though.”  John said, reaching out to take Sherlock’s hand in his own, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of it.  “I’m here for you no matter what it is.”

Sherlock dared to turn his head to look at John, seeing his face pinched with concern, but still entirely open to anything Sherlock had to say.  Sherlock sighed.  He was the one who had started this, but he had very much wanted to be the one in control of the situation.  That control was quickly being wrested from him by John’s tenderness and his own desire to give John whatever he wanted.  He had also underestimated the effect of the compound on himself, and drastically miscalculated the way John would react both to it, and to him.

He had never told anyone, but many people assumed it anyway; something about not only his lack of personal connections, but his outright refusal to recognize his own body as something other than a necessary inconvenience.  That had all changed with John though.  He didn’t realize at first how entirely one perfect man could change his outlook, spark desires he had dismissed so easily before.  He couldn’t deny it any longer though, especially not now with his blood running so hot and the absolute and chemically proven reassurance that John wanted him, had wanted him, even before his little experiment.  

Sherlock looked John in the eyes and a fleeting expression of absolute terror and incredible vulnerability flickered across his face.  “It’s okay Sherlock.”  John encouraged, his thumb still slowly rubbing circles into Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock bit his lip, closed his eyes and braced himself mentally as much as he could in his diminished and much less guarded state.  “John, I’m … a virgin.”  Sherlock said, finally releasing a held breath and waiting anxiously for John’s response.

He didn’t expect the low chuckle that John gave, or the open grin he saw when he dared to open his eyes again.  “Is that all? Jesus, you git, you had me worried.”  John laughed, reaching up with both hands to Sherlock’s face and pulling him in for a kiss.  John was relieved and only a little surprised that his suspicions were confirmed.

Sherlock let himself be plyed by John’s insistence - his fingers steady on his jaw and his lips, oh, soft and open and thrilling.  They met this time with a steady pressure, less teeth and demand, more slow exploration as they moved against each other, breathed into each other.  John trailed kisses over Sherlock’s jaw as his hands moved down to Sherlock’s shoulders to steady himself as he knelt on the couch, slipping one knee between Sherlock’s thighs to face him.  Sherlock shuddered at the feel of John’s lips on his skin, his steady hands on his shoulders, and his knee edging in warmly between his own legs.

John mouthed just below Sherlock’s ear, tasting salt, driving himself half mad with want while slowly realizing that he had no idea what Sherlock wanted out of this, how far he wanted to go.  Sherlock was trembling below him, his eyes closed and one hand gripping John’s thigh.  “What do you want?” John whispered, his breath close to Sherlock’s ear, ruffling through his hair.

Sherlock let out a low moan. “Everything.” he breathed. “I want you.  All of you.”  He smoothed his hand up John’s thigh, sliding his fingers beneath John’s t-shirt, as his other came to join it, seeking out the feel of John’s warm skin.  He buried his face in John’s chest, breathing him in as he pulled John close, the palms of his hands flat and clammy against John’s back.  “I want you to fuck me, John, please.”  Sherlock felt a hard shudder run through John as a low groan resonated in his chest.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John gasped, reaching down to Sherlock’s face again, holding him steady as he bent down to capture his mouth.  Sherlock squirmed as John sucked on his lower lip, biting down gently, sending sparks shooting right down Sherlock’s spine and into his groin, already full and hard.  Sherlock bucked his hips up into John’s thigh, making them groan into each other’s mouths.  John tore himself away from Sherlock’s mouth, panting slightly, his eyes black and glazed over, cheeks a bright pink.  “Right.  Bedroom. Now.”  John instructed, carefully dropping his bare feet down to the floor and standing up, practically dragging Sherlock with him.


	3. Chapter 3

They bumped and stumbled their way to Sherlock’s room, refusing to separate and desperate for as much contact as possible.  Once inside John backed Sherlock up against the edge of the bed and Sherlock sat, obedient only because John was already pulling off his t-shirt standing between Sherlock’s spread legs, and Sherlock’s knees became suddenly incapable of supporting him.  

“John.” Sherlock cooed, pulling him in close and starting to explore all of that newly exposed flesh with his hands and lips and tongue and teeth.  John’s head lolled back as he quickly forgot how to breathe, forgot everything other than the feel of Sherlock touching him, sucking skin between his teeth and tracing the web of scars on his shoulder with curious fingers.

John reached out to slip the dressing gown off of Sherlock’s shoulders, then tugged at his shirt, managing to somehow get Sherlock to break contact long enough to strip him to the waist.  John licked his lips.  God Sherlock was fucking gorgeous, his chest pale and his cheeks flushed, and his curls tousled.  He looked half-wild with want and John didn’t doubt he looked the same.   

As soon as his own shirt was off, Sherlock’s hands were back on John’s stomach, slipping down to curl his fingers into the waistband of John’s jeans.  He looked up at John, a silent question answered by a decisive nod.  Sherlock immediately set to work on John’s flies, but his hands were trembling.  He bit his lip in concentration as he struggled with the buttons, making small frustrated noises under his breath.

John chuckled at him and reached down to finish the job himself before letting Sherlock tug the jeans down.  He supported himself on Sherlock’s shoulders as he stepped out of them, kicking them away before bending down for a kiss that quickly turned into a stuttered gasp as Sherlock ran the flat of his hand over the stiff bulge in his pants.  Oh god that was intense.  John moaned when Sherlock gave him an experimental squeeze, suddenly aware of just how incredibly hard he was.  

Sherlock stretched the elastic of Johns pants out and around his straining erection, sliding them off his hips and down to the floor.  Sherlock groaned low in his throat, the sight of John finally completely naked and wretchedly aroused in front of him was nearly too much.  It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, to keep breathing with John stiff and leaking and right there.

“Is this what you wanted?” John asked, his voice rough, his palms sweaty on Sherlock’s shoulders.  

“Yes.  Oh god, John, yes.”  Sherlock said, wrapping his long fingers around the considerable width of John’s cock, making him practically shout.  

“That feels so good.”  John moaned out, swallowing hard.  “I want to see you.” He practically whimpered as Sherlock swiped his thumb over the slippery head of his cock.  “Please Sherlock, I need to see you.”

Sherlock let out a small huff of breath.  He was perfectly content to just have his hands on John, but clearly John wasn’t.  He let John push him back onto his elbows on the bed, watched as he untied and pulled his pyjama bottoms and pants off in one swift move.  

John just stared for a moment, the breath caught in his throat.  Sherlock looked like living statuary, a work of art brought miraculously to life.  Not even the slightly confused look on his face ruined the picture for John.  Sherlock was all slender limbs and pale skin traced through with blue veins, except where he was dark, wild hair, or flushed and lurid pink.  John swallowed and licked his lips, staring hungrily at Sherlock’s body, particularly his long, hard cock resting against his flat stomach.  

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock finally asked, impatient with John not touching him, just staring open-mouthed.

“Nothing.  You’re just so fucking gorgeous.”  John said, his voice full of wonder. “God, Sherlock.” he whispered under his breath as he put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, guiding him to lay down with his head on the pillows before climbing up after him.  “I can’t believe this is happening.”  He said, positioning himself between Sherlock’s spread legs and running his hands down Sherlock’s chest to his sharp hipbones.

Sherlock arched up into his touch.  “I assure you it is, John,”  Sherlock started, but whatever he was going to say next was cut short in a loud and broken moan as John simultaneously stroked Sherlock’s cock and sucked a bruise into his inner thigh.  “Ah g-god,” Sherlock stuttered, stars sparking off behind his eyelids.  John’s hand felt so warm, slightly rough, and so entirely different from when Sherlock touched himself.

John smiled into the warm skin of Sherlock’s thigh, sliding his hand in smooth, slow strokes over Sherlock’s stiff cock that felt like warmed velvet except where it was slick with pre-come.  He gave one more leisurely stroke before positioning himself overtop of Sherlock, planting his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and bending down to kiss him.  Their bodies slotted together perfectly and they both groaned at the direct skin on skin contact, nearly from head to toe.  

John broke the kiss briefly, “do you…”

“Bedside drawer.” Sherlock interrupted breathily.

John fumbled briefly in the drawer, quickly locating the tube of lube he was after.  John shook his head chuckling quietly, “how do you always do that? You’re fucking brilliant, you know that?”  John buried his face into Sherlock’s neck, kissing and licking his way up to suck an earlobe into his mouth, his breath hot against the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock squirmed and moaned, John’s mouth was making his skin prickle with heat, his already muddled mind was slipping further and further out of his control.  “I - I simply obtherve, John.”  Sherlock lisped.

John moaned in his ear, “oh god Sherlock, did you just lisp?”

Sherlock let out a noise that at once sounded frustrated and embarrassed. “Yeth,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Jesus, just when I think you couldn’t possibly get any more fascinating.” John mumbled into Sherlock’s neck.  “How come I’ve never heard it before?”

“Practithe.” Sherlock said, his face turning impossibly redder that it was before.  Sherlock’s embarrassment was perversely arousing to John, as was the childish lisp, and he felt briefly guilty about it.  “But apparently when I’m very inebriated or, umm, very arouthed.”  Sherlock went on.

“Stop, stop Sherlock, oh god that’s hot.” John said, looking Sherlock in the eyes, making sure he understood that he wasn’t making fun of him in any way.  John kissed him, hard and lingering and tried to desperately swallow the urge to say something that he didn’t think either of them were ready for yet.  Not that they were necessarily ready for this, but it was happening and neither of them were prepared to stop it.  It was a dive into the deep end encouraged by a chemical cocktail and forced honesty.  John did his best not to think about what would happen when this stuff wore off.

“I want you so badly.” John moaned, rocking his hips into Sherlock’s, sending electricity pulsing through their nerves.  Each touch was like fire and lightning all at once and they each just wanted more.

“Then take me, John.  I need you, want you inthide me.”  Sherlock writhed under John, running his hands down John’s back as John gasped and shuddered, Sherlock’s lisp making his cock twitch with his desire.

John kissed and nibbled his way down Sherlock’s chest, over his stomach and down to his already quivering thighs.  He encouraged Sherlock to bend his knees, tilt his hips up and spread his legs wide for him before slicking his fingers up with the lube.     

Sherlock was shaking visibly, chewing on his bottom lip, he was more than a little bit nervous, but was in no way having second thoughts.  John ran a soothing hand up his side, “It’s alright Sherlock, I’ll go slow, and if at any point at all anything hurts or you want to stop just say the word.  I want this to be good for you.  Is it okay?”  

Sherlock nodded as a small choked “yeth” was pulled out of him.  John swallowed and pressed his slippery fingers lightly against Sherlock’s puckered hole, not pressing in, just gently sliding his fingers around the clenched muscle, getting Sherlock used to being touched.  

Sherlock gasped, John’s confident fingers, wet and cool against him, felt strange but very good.  He squirmed against them, wanting more, but John was holding true to his word and going slowly.  Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, clutched the sheets, and tried hard to relax, he managed to recall that as being important.  He focused solely on the glide of John’s fingers circling his hole, his other hand warm and heavy on his thigh.  

John pressed the pad of his finger directly against Sherlock’s tight arse hole, undulating the pressure, very carefully pressing inward while keeping a close eye on Sherlock.  His eyes were shut tight and his forehead had broken out in a sweat, his dark curls clinging there, and his chest and cheeks were flushed pink.  John slid a hand down his thigh to wrap his fingers around Sherlock’s cock, giving him two quick, firm strokes, his thumb slipping over the head as he pushed his wet finger inside Sherlock.

Sherlock moaned, the feeling of John’s finger thick inside of him.  It felt bizarre, strangely satisfying, and above all incredibly intimate.  Sherlock thought about all the times he imagined John’s fingers, so much shorter than his own, more stout with practically squared off tips, clean, short nails, and a wide second knuckle.  Sure hands, reliable fingers.  He had absolutely thought about those fingers inside of him before, with their doctorly precision and caring, but the reality was already proving better.  Sherlock after all, had no reliable frame of reference other than his own limited, personal experimentation.

John had stilled waiting for Sherlock to catch his breath, to relax around him and let him continue.  When he did, John began to move his finger slowly in and out, pushing gradually further inward until with each measured thrust he was moving the entire length of his finger inside Sherlock’s arse.  Sherlock squirmed against him, a stream of needy moans coming out of his mouth with each shuddering breath.  John couldn’t get over just how hot it was inside Sherlock, a nearly feverish heat that was beginning to give way to his ministrations, loosening bit by bit as he wiggled and pushed and pulled his finger inside of it.  

Sherlock thought that this slow torture, every touch and motion amplified by the compound and the very newness of it all, was perhaps the best he had ever felt.  He was only dimly aware of the noises he was making, no longer ashamed of any of his reactions, except perhaps the lisp just a small amount.  He found it disproportionately embarrassing, a remnant of childhood teasing, but John seemed to find it peculiarly arousing.  Sherlock managed, despite the fog of drugs and hormones in his system, to file that small note away in a very new portion of his mind palace titled ‘John Watson: Erotic Stimuli’.

John managed to slide a second finger into Sherlock, who whined slightly at the pressure, but quickly relaxed again.  John was transfixed watching his fingers disappear into Sherlock the slick and hot feel of him, the now gentle pressure on his digits, loosening further as he scissored and twisted them.  He could almost ignore the dull ache of his ignored erection just watching Sherlock’s reactions.  The way he moaned and sighed and clutched the sheets was wonderful.  John tipped the pads of his fingers upward, brushed them lightly over Sherlock’s sensitive prostate that up until now he had been deliberately avoiding.

Sherlock shouted and his hips arched off the bed a little as he saw stars and felt as if he were about to black out.  It was intensely overwhelming and unexpected and god had it felt good.  “Pleathe John,” he lisped out, “do it again.”  John didn’t argue, just smiled salaciously down on him and moved his fingers again.  Even though he was prepared for it more this time Sherlock was still overwhelmed with the sensation.  He managed to keep his eyes open though, and watched the hungry look on John’s face, the absolute want there in his dark eyes and the way he licked his lips.

Sherlock couldn’t stand it anymore, he wanted John inside of him and he wanted it now.  He felt as if his body was going to melt into the bed or implode if he had to wait any longer to experience what a few short years ago, he had been perfectly content to do away with entirely.  Now, with John Watson’s lubricated fingers inside of him giving him indescribable pleasure, he could no longer imagine how that had been, or how it had felt to not desire someone so completely.

“John.”  Sherlock moaned as he writhed against John’s fingers, “I need you to fuck me. Want you inthide me. Pleathe?”  

Sherlock looked up at John from under his dark eyelashes and damp fringe, god, what a sight.  “Jesus.” John breathed, his eyes fluttering shut as a tremor went through him.  That lisp was going to kill him one day, he just knew it.  He took a steadying breath, gathering his sluggish thoughts, pushing through the haze of want.  “We’re going to have it take it slow, okay?  I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yeth John.” Sherlock said, giving him a small, lopsided smile.  John found the lube again and liberally slicked up his hard cock, giving a small moan at the feel of it.  He inched forward, the tip of his cock butting up against Sherlock’s now relaxed arse hole.  It was still going to be a tight fit.  John did his best to breath steadily, push forward slowly, not overwhelm Sherlock or move too quickly to avoid doing any damage to him.

Sherlock hissed at the stretch and accompanying dull burn that came with it.  “Alright?” John asked.

“Mmm-hmm.” Sherlock replied, nodding and trying hard to just relax into it, he knew it wasn’t odd for this to be a bit painful at first, and it was in no way extreme or too much.  Besides the slight burn, it mostly just felt odd, and so much more full than John’s fingers had felt inside of him.  John stilled with just the head of his cock inside Sherlock, ran his hands tenderly down his thighs and steadied one hand on Sherlock’s hip, the other wrapping around his cock.

John stroked him languidly, there was no rush or urgency, he just wanted to Sherlock to relax, to feel alright while he adjusted to the girth of John’s cock inside him.  Sherlock’s cock was so wet, he had leaked so much that there was a small, sticky puddle on his stomach.  Soon Sherlock started to shift beneath him, but John held his hip steady and again started to push forward ever so slightly before pulling out again, then back in just a little more.

Sherlock was losing his mind.  He wanted John to go faster, to be all the way inside him already, but he was holding him down, refusing to let him push himself onto John’s thick cock.  All he could do was clutch uselessly at the sheets, thrash his head back and forth on the pillow, and make frustrated little noises.

John was nearly panting, it was taking everything he had not to just push forward the final distance, seat himself fully inside Sherlock, but he wasn’t taking any chances.  It was only a little while longer before John finally let out a groan as he pressed himself completely to Sherlock.  “Oh god.” he moaned, “you feel fantastic.”  John planted his elbows down by Sherlock’s sides, bending over him to kiss him deeply, again giving Sherlock time to adjust.  Sherlock’s hard cock was trapped between their bellies and John could feel it twitch slightly as he slipped his tongue past Sherlock’s lips.

“John.” Sherlock whimpered, trying to move his hips even though John was planted firmly on top of him.  John straightened back up again, placing one hand on Sherlock’s hip and the other on his knee.  He pulled himself halfway out of Sherlock’s arse hole, then slid carefully back inside.  The feeling was incredibly intense, drawing deep moans out of both of them.  It was all heat and need and pressure on both sides and neither of them were going to last very long.

After a few more careful thrusts and Sherlock’s encouraging moans, John picked up the pace.  He glided in and out more easily now, and he adjusted the angle of his thrusts until Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and he moaned out John’s name, clutching at his forearms.  They stared at each other, both panting open mouthed and practically dripping with sweat.  John’s brow was furrowed in concentration, focusing on hitting Sherlock’s prostate with every thrust to watch him writhe and hear his broken moans.

He moved one hand back to Sherlock’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts, twisting slightly on the upstroke, his thumb grazing occasionally across the head.  Sherlock wrapped his legs around John, pulling him in close.  “Fuck Sherlock.”  John panted, “I want to see you come. Come for me.”

“Ahh yeth, John!  Do it faster, I want more.  Pleathe.”  Sherlock whined, each word drawn out and breathy and oh so needy.  John couldn’t refuse.  He fucked Sherlock into the sheets, his thrusts fast and hard and his hand sliding quickly along Sherlock’s leaking cock.  Sherlock looked wild and desperate, completely flushed.  “Ohh John!” he shouted as he painted his own chest and stomach with streaks of come, making John’s hand wet and slick with it.  His cock pulsed with each spurt and John stroked him through his orgasm, barely able to hold his own back.

Sherlock’s eyes squeezed shut as he came and it was as if his mind was completely blown apart.  Everything was heat and electricity in a wave that washed over and consumed his entire body.  He could feel himself clench around John’s cock, his back arch, and knew he was making some sort of sounds but couldn’t be sure what they were, couldn’t bring himself to care.  He was physically and mentally overwhelmed and it felt so good.  Little tremors continued through him after the full force of his orgasm had subsided, and his mind felt switched off, black and soft and warm with only occasional crackling sparks of intensity.

The mewling cries that Sherlock made as he came were amazing, and John groaned to see his face contort, his muscles spasm and was utterly blown away that he was the one giving him so much pleasure -- the first one to give him so much pleasure.  He couldn’t hold out any longer and buried himself inside Sherlock, letting the still fluttering heat milk out his own orgasm.  He groaned deep and shuddered as sparks went off behind his eyelids and his breath was nearly taken from him.  It was so intense, the drug undoubtedly adding to the experience, but John doubted that was the only reason.  He had all but given up on the idea that he would ever get to see Sherlock like this, ever get to have him any way but as a friend.  He had been happy enough with it, but god, this was so, so much better.

Sherlock was suddenly aware of the curious feeling of John coming inside of him.  It felt hot and wet and Sherlock snapped his eyes open to watch John’s face as his orgasm overtook him.  His lips pressed together into a thin line, his brow furrowed, and he breathed hard through his nose before a shuddering groan broke out of his throat.  Sherlock thought he looked incredible like that, rapturous and intense and completely John -- his John, now.

John slowly pulled his softening cock out of Sherlock, taking a moment to both catch his breath and watch as his come leak slowly out of Sherlock’s reddened arse hole.  It was completely pornographic, and Sherlock, sweaty and dishevelled, his chest and stomach covered in his own come was practically obscene.  John planted a tender kiss on Sherlock’s knee. “You alright?” he asked.

“Yeth.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes.  Completely.”  He looked up at John, letting a slow grin pull the corners of his mouth, an answering grin spreading over John’s face.  John reached over to the bedside table to grab a handful of tissues, tenderly wiping Sherlock’s chest and stomach off and gingerly taking care of some of the come leaking from his arse.  He threw the tissues somewhere near the bin and layed down on his side next to Sherlock, propping himself up on his elbow, draping his other arm across Sherlock.  He leaned in to kiss him slowly, sleepily, then pulled back to consider his face.

“You’re completely mad, do you know that?” John smiled.

“I’m aware, you tell me often.” Sherlock smiled back.  

“Now,” John said, settling his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, snuggling in close despite how hot and sweaty they both were.  “We are going to have a nap, then a shower, then dinner and a long chat about what is and isn’t an appropriate addition to my morning cuppa, maybe by then this stuff will have worn off some.”

“Are you complaining?”  Sherlock asked, the quirked eyebrow clear in his intonation.

“God, no.  Are you?” John said with a yawn.

Sherlock smiled, running his fingers through John’s short hair, and answered “certainly not.”  After a pause Sherlock continued quietly, “I’m glad it was you John.  It could only ever be you.”  But John was already breathing softly, fast asleep.  Sherlock smiled to himself and wondered vaguely when the dull ache in his arse would subside enough for them to do this again.


End file.
